


when the caged bird sings, let the sweet song ring

by nxpenthe



Category: LOONA (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, F/F, one sided chuuves, very inaccurate joseon era au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 20:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19236592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxpenthe/pseuds/nxpenthe
Summary: a nightingale of sweet song, kim jiwoo is taken to the palace to sing. kim jungeun follows, having pledged her life long ago.jung jinsol dances under moonlight, as free as the wind that carried her there.in which jungeun and jiwoo meet circus dancers jinsol and sooyoung under the full moon.





	when the caged bird sings, let the sweet song ring

**Author's Note:**

> part 1 of 2
> 
> very historically inaccurate (around joseon era, and the ming dynasty is mentioned). jinsoul has black hair in this au because bleach does not exist lol  
> cw: mental illness, abuse/prostitution, homophobia. nothing too explicit, but mentioned regardless.

It was a prize reserved only for the fairest of maidens within the grounds of the palace; the King was rumored to be a kind man, one who stepped from the dust and madness of his predecessor of same lineage, and those who caught his eyes were treated with only the greatest of his wit and charm before falling into red-clad embrace.  
  


Inevitably, Jungeun too fell into the broad shoulders of the King.

  
She was a girl from humble beginnings, a countryside village with no more than five merchant families and their adjacent servants. Her mother a cook belonging to lower class, educated only some from the words taught by her father – Jungeun’s grandfather who passed long before she was born – when he had returned from fishing trips out into ocean blue, and her own father a wandering vagabond who told stories of satire that had inhabitants of all classes laughing. They were in love, a rare occurrence, and Jungeun had been born from the consummation of passion that only luck could provide.

  
She was the only daughter, the only child, of her doting parents. Her father treated her as he would a son, teaching her to read and write – telling stories of wild duck chases, of political strife reimagined to fantastical animals, of the great kings and generals of past that made Joseon the great nation it was now. He taught her Hangul alongside her mother, the two women pressed shoulder to shoulder across a ratty piece of rice paper he had procured from market traders, and a stick end dipped in dye used for coloring fabric. He had also taught her music, pounding the drum into beats and melodies, while her mother trained her in song, voice gracefully sliding up and down the melodic scales until lingering in the shimmering air.

  
They were happiness amongst poverty and disease, adjacent to a grand household of rich merchants with a lovely daughter and two sons that treated them more as friends than as servants.

  
Jiwoo, who was twelve and already betrothed to a boy of similar age and class, had been invited to the palace as a songstress – one that was to be trained only for the entertainment of royalty. It was the highest honor. Jiwoo’s talent had shined far too brightly for it to stay hidden, the beautiful sunny girl whom would often proclaim Jungeun as her “best friend in the entire peninsula” had been captured and locked into the shadowy grandeurs of the palace far from their merchant town. 

  
And along with came little Jungeun, who had pledged her loyalty to the upper Kim family in a pact as ancient as the heavenly gods themselves.

  
“You must take care of her,” her mother had urged, adjusting the cloak on her shoulders on the day of departure. “If she is starving, give her your food. If she is sick, give her your blood. If she is to die, you too must step into that grave.”

  
Jungeun had nodded solemnly, cheeks red from the roughness of her mother’s padded thumbs brushing tears away.

  
“Jungeun, my little Jungeun,” her mother whispered into her ear, hugging her tight. “Write if possible. Your father will read the letters.”

  
A horse-drawn carriage had been their ride to the palace. It was a simple little thing, paling in contrast to Merchant Kim and his own vessel. Jiwoo sat crying the entire way, her small face bunched as ugly sobs left her lips, subsiding into the smallest of whimpers when the songstress and accompanying guard eventually scolded her into silence. Jungeun gave her sleeve willingly for Jiwoo to cry in, the latter refusing to let go of their hands until forced apart.

  
\--

  
They had grown up too fast, too soon.

While her song had grown vibrant and strong, Jiwoo had dimmed from her youth. The smile that could bring a light to any persons had shed their intimacy, forced to mature by the treachery of adulthood and palace politics Jungeun remained blissfully ignorant of – Jiwoo returned often pale and sickened, refusing to tell her the details of her performances and what inevitably came after if a man were to fancy the company the girl’s company at night. And while they shared a bond more familiar to friends than of master and servant, the palace had worn her charge to cruelty at times; Jiwoo lashed in a fit of suppressed rage, throwing a bowl of porridge against the wall and shattering the porcelain into fine pieces that shined like diamonds in the air.

  
Jungeun had taken the blame voluntarily while the girl cried an apology at the stripes of red and blue that came from a punishing cane on the skin of her thighs. Loneliness became evident in the lines of Jiwoo’s face – frowns that had never existed creasing the youthful face until her beauty rendered marred, steady hands trembling in anxiousness akin to a mouse that peeped its head into a den of tigers.

  
“ _Take care of her_ ,” her mother had said, “ _Her life is yours._ ”

  
How could she explain to her family, to the merchant Kim, that their beloved Kim Jiwoo could no longer eat without later regurgitating what had entered her stomach only seconds prior, or that she no longer laughed when Jungeun imitated her father and sang a butchered _pansori_ of childhood tales? How could she tell them that she had failed to protect the girl from the poison of adulthood – that the palace had ground them both up and left them only shriveled husks of porcelain beauty where cracks already scored pale skin?

  
How could she tell them that she too no longer knew what she was or where she stood in the fiery life of discipline and principles that stripped her of identity and decimated a nonage.

  
\--

  
Their solace came one night in a flash of spring, of disarming smiles and sporadic youthfulness.

  
A prominent official had brought in a circus – one detailed to be the best in the world. Sprightly men of boyish vigor bounced on tightropes, their bandaged wrists swinging on them as though monkeys in the wild. Boorish man of brute strength lifted women of fairy-like splendor, their thin gracefulness a stark contrast to the orcish characters that held them afloat only by the palm of thick hands. Musicians blared their horns, the pounding of strings against the _gayageum_ accompanying the beat of drums that had the entire procession clapping along in gleeful abandonment. Though they had been brought only to entertain the Chinese officials that came in hopes of trade, the evanescent joy played its way into the heartstrings of the King, who ordered at once that they come back monthly to spread light into the darkest precipices of the palace.

  
The first month had come and past in loud cacophony; Jiwoo clapped and smiled, laughing at the comedies and sniffling at the forged tragedies. Jungeun had been equally entranced by the unrestrained nature of the troupe.

  
“They are lovely,” Jiwoo says after the showing, her round eyes widening to the size of the moon. Jungeun stifles a choked sob, ignoring the way her heart flails uselessly against her ribs at the sight of her friend – her master – regaining the former glow that she had not seen for years. (But sentimentality had no place in the palace, and she is quick to curb the noise.) “Did you see those dancers, Jungeun? They were beautiful! So lovely and graceful and free.”

  
“And free.” She echoes back, allowing the wishful sentiment to ring in the air for only a moment. Jiwoo sighs, a silent understanding, “Let us return before Lady Han reprimands us further. We have been out far too long, already I can hear her mawkish chiding.”

  
“A chicken masquerading as a songbird,” Jungeun snorts into her sleeve, masquerading the offense as a sneeze as a parade of decorated officials pass by. One shoots her a pointed glare. She gives a sheepish look back, though it is quickly covered by a grinning Jiwoo.

  
They pass through the gardens, stepping off the path and bowing politely to every passing official and guard, returning as quickly as possible to the sequestered quarters of the musicians. They are still a lowly class in comparison to the rest, rated beneath other palace girls, but Jiwoo’s prominence as both a singer and a daughter of wealthy merchants who had direct connection with Chinese traders had granted the girl privileges that many others lacked – Jungeun, being one.

  
Jungeun had grown to much more than just a servant and friend. A confidant – an individual trusted with all the secrets of Jiwoo; and Jiwoo, in return, would treat her equally, listening to her clandestine desires and sneaking her pieces of music to study, or books to read, or sweet dried persimmons to snack on. They were equivalencies in a place full of duplicity.

  
So, it was no surprise, her the keeper of Jiwoo’s secrets, would become the target of meandering men who wished to woo the singing nightingale.

  
(Little did these travelers know that the lack of interest was not from Jiwoo and her youth, but of complete indifference to men altogether.)

  
\--

  
The circus returns in the next moon cycle.

  
The quarter bustled with excitement, vibrant energy brimming from even the most sullen individuals. All had been rejuvenated by the circus, charmed by the uniqueness that strict training and traditions deprived. Even the masters shuddered with the formation of melodies that left their fingertips in strong strokes – brilliance came from inspiration, and the dryness of the palace had been swept away, soaked up by motivation never before seen. Another month passes the same way, all counting down to when the beautiful troupe would return from their journey with another new set, and then another month and another.

  
It is a full moon when they meet.

  
Jungeun sits at the pagoda, accompanying Jiwoo as best she could on the drum that sat on her hips, the fabric of the _hanbok_ gripping the leathery surface of the instrument.

  
This was yet another one of Jiwoo’s numbered perquisites: the ability to leave her lodgings in accompaniment of a servant at night – as long as they stayed within the confines of the musicians’ quarter. They masqueraded the excursion to the pagoda garden as practice, but it became a routine in which they giggled and chattered, away from the stern eyes of the masters. The songs that left Jiwoo’s lips were no longer the traditional eulogies of fallen heroes, but of vagrants and drifters, of rabbits and monkeys, of obscenity and immorality.

  
(Her mother would scold her if she could hear the words leaving sweet Jiwoo’s lips.)

  
A particularly foul song of messy intercourse between a wryly servant and a foolish master finishes with Jungeun applauding the bowing Jiwoo. They’re both giggling like mad, unbridled laughter of bashful girlishness mixing with the irony of the obscenity leaving virgin lips. Swept away by the feelings of the night, they fail to hear the blades of grass murmuring warnings of the entrance of an outsider.

  
“Fair maiden, what horrible words leave your mouth!” A sing-song voice of sweet wit enter where silence lie. Jungeun immediately stands, bowing to the intruders. She can almost feel the lashes that are soon to grace the back of her thighs in stinging bruised lines. “We could have you reported for such vulgarity!”

  
Jiwoo stays equally silent, bowed from her waist down until her body remains parallel to the flat ground below. Jungeun follows suite quickly, catching only a glimpse of blue robes and a black top hat before her eyes close in nervousness.

  
“Stand straight, girls, so we may have a look at your beauty,” another voice joins in the mockery, light and airy, almost too feminine to belong to the plodding footsteps of thick soled shoes. Jungeun feels herself twitch beneath the lighter summer robes, barely perceptible movements blown disproportionately. Fingers find their way beneath her robes, Jiwoo’s own clammy palms interlocking with hers as they stand slow, laced fingers hidden by billowy silk.

  
Sharp jaws and owlish eyes greet their sight; the two robe-clad figures are undoubtedly women despite the male garb they don. Is it not an immoral act to wear the robes of the opposite gender? The confusion is quick to form in the creases between her eyebrows, a thought Jungeun knows echoes in Jiwoo from the way her slender fingers strengthen their grip.

  
“We apologize for having disgraced your ears with obscenities,” Jiwoo is the first to plea for forgiveness, her head still bowed low against the weight of the moonlight. Jungeun follows suit, her own back lowered further than that of her master. “Do pardon us, we meant no harm to you, sirs.”

  
“Sirs!” A guffaw. “She calls us sirs!”

  
“Fair maiden, you are mistaken,” the tilt of the top hat meant only for officials of higher class comes tumbling forward into slender fingers that catch the brim, a smooth dismount in the arc of a showy bow. The smaller of the two women sports a wild grin, hair as black as the night reflecting the light of the stars. “We are mere dancers – though prized guests of the King himself.”

  
“But you are dressed in the clothes of men? I do not understand.” Jiwoo steadies herself, standing straight with her back delicately curved in a flair of feminine charm detectable even beneath the silken layers of her _hanbok_. Braided hair twisted into a traditional pleat lay flat against her back – Jungeun notices a couple loose strands and quietly berates herself for letting the minute detail slip from her normally attentive self.

  
“And I do not understand why you hide yourself out in this pagoda singing songs of the outside. Where, fair lady, do you come from? Would it be rude to inquire for name, or shall we set our sights past the pagoda and back to our temporary stay?” The banter continues, the large eyes of the taller, tanned dancer train themselves onto Jiwoo. Jungeun can see how captivated she is by the slender beauty of Jiwoo, but she pays no mind, returning her gaze to the dancer’s companion – the women with black hair set against pale skin. They lock eyes.

  
Jungeun feels a prickling down the skin of her neck.

  
“Is it not traditional from where you come to offer one’s name before asking another?” Jiwoo responds back as sternly as possible, though amusement is clear in her tone. The smile of the tan dancer proceeds to widen, “My apologies, where are my manners! My name is Ha Sooyoung, my companion here Jung Jinsol. We are dancers of the circus troupe that passes through monthly – perhaps you have seen us perform?”

  
Jiwoo sends her a look, excitement evident in how her face lights. Jungeun returns her gaze with a more subdued glance, though the sentiment is shared by the arch of her brows.

  
“The circus!”

  
A sure smile makes its way onto Jinsol’s face, “So you have heard of us? Ha Soo, it seems like these girls are fans. Perhaps we could give them a little show?”

  
“Of course. That is the price to pay for our previous insolence! If we do an extra great job, perhaps we could also attain names to place onto faces.” Sooyoung glances at the two, though her gaze lingers on Jiwoo for a moment longer. Only Jungeun takes note – Jiwoo, much too excited by the prospects of a showcase claps her hand in a display of juvenile indulgence, her young age crackling through despite her efforts of formality. Jungeun scolds her softly under her breath, attempting to curb the overt enthusiasm into a manner more appropriate for a lady of her standing.

  
Jiwoo quiets, though her body trembles still.

  
“Would you, lady-in-waiting, be kind enough to play a beat on the drum of yours?”

  
Jinsol smiles beneath her hat, the mesh material barely covering the glint in her brown eyes.

  
The request comes unexpected. Jiwoo turns to her, nodding in encouragement, fingers pressed into her palm. There is no room to argue. With a resigned sigh, Jungeun seats herself next to Jiwoo, arms stretched to give herself ample space to drum. She places the _sori-buk_ in her legs, catching the wood against her shoe to prevent from rolling. One hand skims the drum softly, fingers thumping a rhythm pattern against the leather while the birch stick held in her right counters the melody. She looks up.

  
Both dancers bow in preparation.

  
They start slow. Sooyoung happens to be a pansori singer as well, her voice well-suited for the gliding whistles of the song, while Jinsol solely chimes in with occasional grunts of support; they dance with tentative steps, Jungeun’s rhythm sliding to match the sporadic dance while Jinsol and Sooyoung melt into one the other’s presence. They are as stark as night and day – Jinsol as fluid as water, her hips swaying in what could only be described in likeness to magic. It was as though the dragons of gold that decorated the tops of the palace had freed themselves from their prison of timeless beauty and breathed their fire into her. She is agile and graceful, the fluttering of leaves scattered beneath swirling up and up until cocooned in ethereal light.

  
Sooyoung contrasts with darkness, her towering figure swooping with strength that brought forth the yang; her fire started from the core of her stomach, moving forth with vigor that cut through the protective shell of leaves, long arms and legs twisting themselves until she too metamorphosed into the beauty of a swan basked in dying light. Like the sun and moon, they danced around one another, holding only a piece of the other within their breast as they separated and rejoined as though lovers in heaven allowed access only by the stars. Humor melded into madness, twisting its way into Jungeun’s fingers as Sooyoung sang the song and Jinsol led the steps.

  
The peace breaks with the appearance of a voice as sweet as a nightingale. Its smooth cadence soaring upwards, the subtle ring guiding the tone as it rings across the clear garden. Jungeun drums to a stop, her fingers hitting the sides until they’ve quieted, masked by the fluidity of the voice.

  
Jiwoo joins to reorder the chaos, intricacies placing the spontaneous melody into a song. Jinsol continues to dance, her movements slow and delicate, transforming from a rushing river to gentle rain. Sooyoung ceases all movement, mesmerized by the songstress.

  
(Jungeun feels a spike of pride, a smile lighting her visage.)

  
“You are the songstress Kim,” Sooyoung looks up in awe as they finish their song to the final sweltering note. “I – we apologize for our earlier intrusion,” she bows quickly, a swift hand pressing against Jinsol’s shoulder to encourage the other to follow suit.

  
Jiwoo looks almost bashful – it drives a stake in Jungeun’s heart, unknown emotions beating against her ribs. “It seems my reputation precedes me.”

  
“Lady Kim we apologize –” Jinsol starts once more, her chin ducked into her chest, her voice more uncertain than apologetic. “Had we known, we would have never –”

  
Jungeun frowns, much too aware of how Jiwoo’s own smiles falters at the sudden politeness. It is quite clear that her charge preferred the banter from earlier – before class had taken its place and forced the roles of arbitrary civility onto them. Jiwoo, despite her upbringing, was never much for the courtesy that came with her standing, preferring to dress in Jungeun’s dull garb on their secret excursions into town when they were children – unafraid of the world.

  
(Her parents would punish her harshly, but Jungeun never minded. As they said, Jiwoo’s happiness was her own after all.)

  
“Please, stand. We are of equal standing. I plead you simply forget titles here,” Jiwoo says slowly, her voice quivering, “You may address me as Jiwoo.”

  
“But Lady Kim—”

  
“Please.”

  
Sooyoung looks doubtful. Jinsol casts Jungeun a glance. She returns it with an encouraging nod and lopsided smile, the right corner of her lip lifting higher as a quiet sigh exits through her nose.

  
“If you insist…” The uncertainty still lies bare in Sooyoung’s voice. Jinsol, on the other hand, brightens, ignoring the way her partner stands pressured into awkwardness; her feet glide, as though brushing over water than land, dainty steps making their way up the stairs of the pagoda. They still at the entrance, her brimmed hat secured by long fingers as she bows deeply, though her face remains turned towards the two palace girls.

  
“Permission to enter the humble abode of two fair maidens?” Jinsol sends a cheeky wink to Jiwoo, ignoring the squeak of protest that leaves Sooyoung’s lips from behind. “Perhaps we could sing another song in celebration of a new friendship?”

  
“Friendship?” _Friendship?_

  
What Jiwoo voices with an air of delighted contemplation, Jungeun takes the word with careful trepidation. Friendships in the palace amounted to little – and passing vagabonds hardly made companions worthy of a lady such as Jiwoo. Nevertheless, she lets the word slide, allowing Jinsol to take a place on the seat in front them.

  
“Friends with two beautiful ladies under a full moon! I must say, this is fortune at its finest – blessed moon, thank you for guiding me here.” Jinsol spreads her arms in exaggeration, the dramatics returning to her voice as it swells and falls, a crescendo of softness that grows as Jiwoo giggles. Jungeun cracks a smile despite earlier misgivings.

  
Jinsol looks pleased, her own bright grin stretching further.

  
“Wait for me!” Sooyoung rushes forth, her hands at her knees as she mills about the bottom step of the pagoda. “I too wish to join this circle.”

  
“You lost your chance already, Ha Sooyoung!” Jinsol goads from within the pagoda, cackling. (Her voice shines brightly, its loud charm as breathtaking as a summer whirlwind.) “Go stand watch from the outskirts there while I talk to new companions.”

  
“Oh, please do let her in,” Jiwoo offers giggling reprieve, letting a miffed Sooyoung enter with an ungraceful plop. It proves a stark contrast to her previous self, limbs awkward stretched beneath the men’s clothes as though unfamiliar with the fabric.

  
Jungeun raises a brow, “Why do you both wear that?”

  
“One must wear the clothes of another to understand them!” It’s stated as though an obvious fact, Jinsol extending an arm to show off the clothes. She urges Jungeun to do the same, allowing them to compare the two sets of clothes as Sooyoung wiggles through.

  
“She jests! She simply wanted an escape from the circus stay, and our heights matched the wardrobe given,” Sooyoung rolls her eyes.

  
“Thus, you dressed as men to escape?” Jungeun asks.

  
“Precisely!” Jinsol sits back down, lowering her hands. Their fingers graze – Jungeun jolts at the sudden contact, trying to ignore the way her skin flushes red, while Jinsol continues to smile, unperturbed. “We wished to explore the palace grounds as quietly as possible – inspiration, they say, comes from the strangest of times. And it seems tonight has been graced by the heavenly gods.”

  
Jiwoo claps her hands, excitement bubbling all too obviously. “Where have you gone? What are your travels like – please, if you would be gracious enough to tell! We haven’t been able to leave the palace except to the marketplace in the center of the city.”

  
(Jungeun too, nods along despite her earlier admonishing, eagerly awaiting the details of their adventures.)

  
Sooyoung laughs, her playful nature appearing with a single wink. “In exchange for a song?”

  
“Any song!” Jiwoo agrees quickly.

  
“Well! In that case, I suppose I shall tell you until you grow sick of my voice. I come from the South, a village so large that it sits at the edge of the sea. From there on we traveled, moving our way upwards until the border of the great Ming Empire came to view…"

  
Basked in ghostly light – a banishment of shadows underneath the beaming moon – the four remained seated in the pagoda as the leaves descend back to Earth.

  
\--

  
The circus leaves with little fanfare.

  
Sooyoung and Jinsol promise gifts upon their next visit – stories of new adventures and then some. (“No compensation shall be accepted except your presence,” the two dancers had insisted when Jungeun had attempted to hand them coins as suggested by Jiwoo. They are dressed as women this time, humbled robes a contrast to the palace maidens’ decorated skirts. It is shocking to see how their beauty shines through forced plainness.)

  
With a final tune of wooden pipes, the circus says goodbye, stealing the light of the moon as it wanes, the last of its strength used to mark a trail on the ground for the dancers to follow.

  
Jungeun stands at the gate by Jiwoo’s insistence, the latter forced into recital for a visiting official from the Ming Empire.

  
Sooyoung sings a sprightly tune as Jinsol dances around her. Jinsol twirls on her heels, turning to face the palace and its splendors, and Jungeun can only stare as the air carries her boisterous laugh to her.

  
A guard barks a warning, ordering her to stand back as the doors slam shut in finality.

  
\--

  
The leaves fall to the ground, embittered by the coming winter. Their colors had shifted from green to red to brown, delicate and frail, crunching beneath careless feet of passerbys. The pagoda garden grew increasingly desolate as the colors of autumn receded to memory, grey clouds casting a strange bleakness that permeated the air. Even the palace seemed affected, the liveliness within its walls diminishing to hushed whispers of secrecy as people scurried about, unwilling to spend time as snowy winds nipped at skin, discoloring warm skin.

  
Jiwoo, too, turns like the leaves.

  
Brittle, frail, crushed beneath unrelenting footsteps of those too busy to cast a look at what was the vibrant beauty of fall. The leaves that soaked and thrived in the sun shriveled at the cold blast, dyeing the cobblestone below. Jiwoo bled the last remnants of the sun into her song, her spirit swallowed by the white that soon encompasses her body.

  
The King had specifically requested the Songstress Kim to perform at his birthday celebration taking place on the winter solstice. She had reasonably been excited, throwing herself into necessary perfection – Jungeun, too, had been cast aside as Jiwoo locked herself into open practice rooms far into the depths of the music quarters with only the strictest of masters. The seasons passed as Jungeun busied herself in assistance of the other musicians, studying what she could from men kind enough to lend her old scores or teach her offhanded techniques. Jiwoo remained separated from this process, the kind girl beloved by many receding from the light until one day she returned, blackened and blue, a strip of red against sallow skin.

  
Cruelty had transformed the girl into an ugly manifestation of self-doubt, the pallor of her skin lined with invisible scars furthering the ghastly alternation. She no longer smiled at the sound of music shimmering in the air as the musicians practiced at sunrise – a wince takes its place instead, shoulders caving to physical protect herself as an errant note jars the otherwise serene morning procedure. Jungeun feels her own heart hollow at the sight of her beloved friend.

  
(At the Merchant Kim’s home, he owned an emptied well rumored to hold treasures of pirates. Jungeun and Jiwoo had scrambled their way to the side, dropping in rocks to see how deep it ran – a sound was never heard, no matter how large or small the object.

  
Jungeun can’t help as though Jiwoo had wandered too close to that edge.

  
Perhaps, Jungeun too would have to start traversing the precipice.)

  
She reaches forward, cradling her master’s face, watching as her palm sunk into hollowed cheeks in aghast silence. Jiwoo’s usual scent was replaced with the smell of musk and gunpowder – undoubtedly from the general that had taken a liking to her earlier that afternoon. (It explained her sudden disappearance and the abrupt secrecy of the other entertainers.)

  
“Let us go for a walk?” Jiwoo says with trembling voice, fingers shaking as they reach for Jungeun’s sleeve, wishing for a semblance of past normality.

  
“Jiwoo,” Jungeun whispers the name quietly, afraid of hurting the girl more, “Perhaps we should take a rest? The winds are cold, the garden is unsuitable for a walk.”

  
Jiwoo nods quietly, eyes trained to a particularly worn spot on the floor.

  
The bedding is laid out as Jiwoo eats her meal – a simple soup and rice with leftovers from what was fed to royalty. Jungeun clears the barely touched dishes away, placing them outside for another kitchen girl to pick up before seating herself behind Jiwoo to undress and redo the braids of her hair.

  
(Jungeun feels her stomach sink at the red scratches that run down Jiwoo’s back.)

  
Their usual chatter is replaced by silence. Jiwoo’s occasional grunts of pain and shifting from the discomfort of her bruised thighs the only disturbances in an otherwise quiet routine.

  
Jungeun hesitates, lingering in the entrance way as she casts another long look at her charge – her friend. Jiwoo looks back with dulled eyes.

  
“Stay with me?”

  
She frowns. “Shall I lay out another bed?”

  
Jiwoo shakes her head, sitting up by her elbows. Her bony shoulders poke through from the slackness of sleeping robes. “Please stay with me.”

  
They settle into the single bed, its fluffed blankets covering up to their shoulders. Jiwoo huddles into her for warmth, shaking as a winter gust pushes against the walls of the room.

  
Uneven breathes settle into a rhythmic pattern, Jungeun’s own softening to match the pitch of Jiwoo’s; they look at one another – Jungeun with something akin to pity, a sense of guilt stabbing at her heart as Jiwoo crumbles once more, eyes reddened with unshed tears. A stray strand of brown hair falls, shielding one of her eyes from the swirl of emotions in Jiwoo’s.

  
A light finger brushes the offending object to the side. Jiwoo places her palm against her face, cupping her full cheek, a thumb brushing against Jungeun’s lips.

  
Electricity jolts between them. Sleep flees from Jungeun’s heavy limbs as Jiwoo continues to press her thumb against the corner of her mouth, nail grazing the sensitive skin.

  
Neither talk.

  
Neither dare to breathe.

  
It is Jiwoo who breaks the silence with a whisper so soft Jungeun strains to hear despite the proximity.

  
“I fear I’m becoming mad.”

  
Lips press clumsily against her own. The contact is brief, coming as quickly as it goes.

  
Jiwoo turns around, curling up within herself as her knees press against her chest, shoulders trembling. Previously felt warmth melts into foreign coldness. It sinks into Jungeun’s stomach, steely grip punching from the inside. And yet, she forces herself to move – the action is easier than it should be – steady arms making their way around Jiwoo’s shoulders until the girl is pressed against her chest.

  
(Her mother’s words echo in her mind. Her family promised an oath to the Merchant Kim’s long ago – who was Jungeun to break the bond?)

  
A shaky breath leaves her own lips. The pounding in her chest continues as she closes her eyes, willing her body to stop the incessant shudders.

  
( _“Her life is yours.”_ )

  
“If you are to be mad, then I too shall follow.”

  
\--

  
The day is warm despite the snow that litters the ground.

  
Jungeun is the first to rise as usual, attending to Jiwoo. The girl awakens with a rare sunny disposition, a grin on her face that fails to light her eyes – Jungeun grimaces internally but keeps the pleasant smile she had awoken with to steer suspicion. Jiwoo pays no mind, quickly dressing and ignoring the breakfast brought by Jungeun before exiting, headed towards the practice rooms she would undoubtedly inhabit until dusk.

  
Jungeun busies herself with other tasks necessary for the grand performance – it was only a couple months now. The full moon would return, the winter solstice  
bringing forth the grand celebration of the King’s birthday, and Jiwoo would be set free from the restraints of perfection.

  
(She ignores the fear in her heart of possible failure.)

  
Today, however, is market day. Her empty basket is placed in the crook of her arm as she is given a wooden emblem, carved with the mark of the palace before being let out to attend to the shopping list given by the headmaster of the musician quarters. Normally the day would be spent with Jiwoo at her side, chatting with different merchants and listening for any news of their town far away by the sea – instead Jungeun spends it in solitude, allowing the chatter of the marketplace to override her thoughts.

  
“Come all to hear a tale of grandeur! Of a foolish _yangban_ and his lowly servant that outwits him!”

  
A man’s gruff voice calls from the center of the plaza, a cleared space where a _pansori_ singer and his accompanist sit on a single straw mat. The singer has a fan in his hand, his grip strong as he waves it around, attracting the attention of children and adults alike.

  
Jungeun stands at the outskirts, her filled basket draped with a cloth to prevent theft by the buttery fingers (she had learned the hard way after getting spanked by her mother for her carelessness).

  
“ _There lies a_ yangban _up on a mountain – as serious as a monk!”_ The man’s gruff singing rings huskily, experienced and strong. Jungeun smiles despite the vulgarity of the story. A woman’s voice sounds in midst of the song, acting as the wife of the simple _yangban_ – her voice a startlingly similar to the lilt of Jung Jinsol, and suddenly an aching for the two moonlight dancers and their carefree nature returns in her chest.

  
(How she misses the circus. It would still be another week before their next visit. Maybe she will have time to dry some persimmons by the time of their return.)

  
She listens until the end of the story, laughing along with the crowd as the _yangban_ is unknowingly humiliated by the servant, his wife entering to chide him for his foolishness. The crowd disperses, and with it Jungeun’s excuse to stall as she circles the market once more, looking for the objects she already bought before returning to the palace. She, like the _yangban_ of the tale, would undoubtedly be scolded for her tardiness, but the lightness in her heart alleviates the pressures of yesterday into a manageable amount.

  
Or so she thinks.

  
Dropping the basket of goods at supplies shed, Jungeun makes her way back with dinner as she bows at Jiwoo’s door, announcing her presence.

  
“I have returned. Lady Kim, may I enter?”

  
A cacophony of sound. Jungeun hears the tear of paper before she can see it, her hands opening the door as fast as possible.

  
Inside, disaster awaits.

  
Torn papers flutter at her feet as she stares in disbelief at the destruction; scores muddled with red and black ink swirl on the floor, creating a collage of disjointed melodies and scales. Ink splatters one of the walls and floor, a broken calligraphy brush haphazardly stuffed into the corner as her lacquered cabinets holding precious jewelry lie on top of another, toppled carelessly. Jiwoo sits amidst the destruction, red skirt and white robes falling limply off thin shoulders, her braid undone.

  
“Jiwoo—”

  
The sound brings the girl to. Jiwoo whips her head fast, stuttering halfway in a manner so sudden that Jungeun fears for her neck. They meet each other’s stares – one of madness, the other of distress.

  
“Jungeun,” Jiwoo looks about the destruction. She chuckles, unhinged laughter falling from her humorless smile. The sound jolts Jungeun into action, forcing her to step into the room and slam the door shut to contain the internal pandemonium. Jiwoo falls to the floor, legs crumpling beneath her weight – papers scatter.

  
Jungeun rushes to her side, ignoring the way her socks slide off the slippery surface of ink and music. Her charge laughs, though watery in sound, an unpleasant smile twisting its way into a whimpering tremble as she clutches to Jungeun’s sleeve.

  
“It seems I have made a mess.”

  
Laughter turns to tears; Jiwoo cries into her chest, Jungeun responds with unsteady hands that attempt to smooth the girl’s hair.

  
“Stay with me.” Jiwoo whispers against her skin.

  
( _Perhaps Jiwoo truly is mad._ )

  
Jungeun nods. Her arms curl protectively around the girl’s trembling form, similar to how they were the previous night.

  
( _Perhaps she is too._ )

  
“For as long as you need.”

  
Be it seconds or minutes, Jungeun remains deaf to Jiwoo’s diminishing sobs as thunderous whispers echo from her heart.

  
\--

  
  
The circus returns on the night a month before the King’s birthday celebration. The moon had returned to its previous strength, glistening bright against winter sky. Stars join in the sparkling celebration as reed pipes blow a tune native to the South.

  
Jungeun meets Jinsol at the pagoda by her lonesome.

  
It was an unplanned meeting, one that came from Jungeun’s need to wander about in pensive thought. Jiwoo had taken a vow of silence for the entire day as to prevent her throat from wearing, and Sooyoung similarly followed suit, retiring early in efforts to regain strength from weary travels.

  
Inside her heart, Jungeun is grateful for the lack of confusion. Jinsol, she quickly finds, is simple and easy – a lovely girl that treats her well with stories and laughter. There is no rumination when it comes to Jinsol, no second-guessing, and in a time full of heightened tensions, the dancer comes as an eye of peace from the ranging typhoon. Conversation comes naturally between them; Jungeun learns that Jinsol is from Hanseong, having grown up with monks as an adopted child after her mother had abandoned her there. She learns that Jinsol learned to dance from a _gisaeng_ in the marketplace, and that she joined the circus when it passed through, having become fast friends with Sooyoung who had recruited her.

  
Jungeun listens as Jinsol shares, her own life paling in contrast to Jinsol’s travels.

  
“You frown too much today. Did something happen?” Jinsol’s eyes are kind. Jungeun immediately decides she likes them.

  
“Many things happen in the palace.”

  
It is the nondescript truth, and yet Jinsol holds the same unwavering stare, thoroughly unconvinced. Jungeun refrains from explaining, her attention suddenly trained on a line in the wooden floor of the pagoda. What was there to explain without giving away her own growing reservations on her current state – they are adults now, bound by owned filial piety, a sense of personal duty, and the laws of governance that dictate routine. Jungeun had always been bound to a life of servitude, and she never wished for more except to fulfill the promises of her lineage.

  
( _So why does Jinsol get to dance so freely, her limbs unrestrained as they reached upwards, fingertips grazing the heavenly skies._

 _  
Why does Jungeun look up at the same stars and fail to see the wonders that echo so lucidly in Jinsol’s eyes?_ )

  
“I see,” Jinsol answers plainly. Jungeun ignores the way relief mixes in with apprehension. Her stomach twists, the weight of her secrets manifesting unpleasantly until a deeper frown makes its way onto her lips. She owes the dancer nothing, and yet she wants to tell her everything.

  
A strange contradiction indeed.

  
“Well,” Jinsol stands, dusting the stray bits of snow off her thick winter skirt. “If you are unable to tell me what is troubling you, would you mind if I were to assist in alleviating the pressures? I – unlike the slander my dear companion may send my way – am a great teacher. You sing and play, but can you dance?”

  
Jungeun shakes her head.

  
“Perfect,” Jinsol smiles. “Would you like to learn?”

  
A hand is held in her direction, fingers slim and long. Jungeun stops herself from rushing forward to grab delicate hands, trying her best to stop the embarrassment of feeling her own coarse skin worn from years of work. Regardless of the differences, Jinsol grips tighter, silently encouraging her to stand – the smile is just as kind as her eyes, and who was Jungeun to refuse such hospitality?

  
“I should repay you,” she mumbles. She no longer can gaze at Jinsol without a rush of heat coloring her cheeks.

  
“You needn’t.”

  
“I insist.”

  
“Your presence is reward enough.” The response is playful, said quietly as though caught between a whisper and mumble. Jungeun snaps her sights back onto Jinsol, searching for the smile only to be caught with a lopsided grin and crinkled eyebrows – the dancer looks surprised at her own forwardness. 

  
“Oh.” Jungeun answers, breathless.

  
Jinsol clears her throat, letting go of their interlocked hands to step back. (Jungeun stops from reaching forward, her twitching fingers immediately missing the warmth as cold winter air moves to occupies the space.)

  
“I don’t suppose flirting is part of dancing?” Jungeun chuckles, a single eyebrow cocked in amusement.

  
Jinsol smiles sheepishly. “I suppose not.”

  
“Anything else not included?”

  
“Your startling level of sass.”

  
“It comes with the package.”

  
Jinsol laughs. “I suppose I will have to accept that too then.”

  
\--

  
  
They meet beneath the pagoda in moonlight the following day. Then the next, and the next, and the next, until Jinsol becomes a constant.

  
Jinsol dances like she speaks. There is no hesitation in her steps, no careful planning or maneuvering – she speaks unrestrained, and her dance is equally instinctual, relying purely on music to influence the sway of her body, the bend of her wrist. She dances like a fish in the grand ocean blues, the rushing water of music a direction to channel the elegance than a dictation of beat.

  
She dances like Jiwoo used to sing: unrestrained, holding only a marvel for the world yet unknown.

  
Jungeun follows with her own clumsy steps.

  
Her chained feet float higher off the ground with each passing day.

  
The stars suddenly shine brighter, closer to her touch than ever before.

  
\--

  
They fall in love much too easily.

  
Jungeun is swept away before she is aware of what is happening – and when realization strikes, Jinsol fills her with an immovable happiness that she fails to find protest. Love is easy with the dancer, freeing. Fun, even.

  
Their nightly excursions are often spent alone, though on occasion Jiwoo and Sooyoung join the throes. Sooyoung is suspicious but says nothing – Jungeun and her share a long look one night, and only a simple nod of understanding promises of sealed lips.

  
Jungeun sighs a breath of relief then and loosens her stiff posture to fall slightly in the shoulders of the dancer sitting next to her.

  
Jiwoo, however, remains within herself, a hardened shell withholding chatters the others engage in. She retires early on the rare occasion she joins, claiming escape from the damaging weather to maintain peak health until the winter solstice comes. Jungeun bows out in addition, though she lingers at the edge of the garden, looking inwards to the candle-lit pagoda.

  
Jiwoo pays no mind, hurrying her steps back to their shared room.

  
It had become a commonplace routine for Jungeun to stay over – Jiwoo would thrash awake with nightmares the nights left alone, and she from obligation and guilt, would stay, curling under the covers with the singer’s frail body curled against her chest. A hasty kiss is pressed against her lips as Jiwoo falls into uneasy slumber, one that Jungeun returns with the same fraught unease.

  
A different sort of erratic heartbeat settles in her chest; with Jinsol it is easy, with Jiwoo suffocating, and yet both remained unattainable.

  
( _What is love but fleeting?_ Perhaps she had once loved Jiwoo the same way she loves Jinsol now.)

  
With guilt one night, Jungeun stares at the moonlit sky, wishing she was in the candle-lit pagoda in the arms of another as Jiwoo shuffles quietly in restless sleep.

  
\--  
  


The winter solstice comes on a sunny day.

It is a feast of massive scale. Every minute detail of every elaborate and colorful dish is checked and rechecked to fix the smallest of errors hardly visible to the naked eye. A kitchen girl attends to each serving, tasting to check for poison before moving, footsteps moving to the rhythm of an unhinged woodpecker. The older court officials follow, cloaks of blue and red embroidered with golden thread glistening in the sun, reflecting off the snow to blind those that followed.

  
Jiwoo is sequestered into the training chambers, locked away in private meditation as she reviews the lyrics once more to a song she has sang in her dreams. The circus is equally busy with their own perfected routines – the King, though kind to those he governed, was still a strict man that only expected the best presenting to him.

  
No one had failed yet to pass his standards, and this was hardly the day to do so.

  
Were it her choice, Jungeun would have gone to her charge or the circus folk. (Jinsol caught her for only a moment, whispering words that made her blush red to the tip of her ears before they parted. It was only when she reached the storage shed that she realizes she forgot to wish the dancer luck.) Instead, she runs back and forth between the musician quarters and the grand hall, hearing enough abuse that would make any soldier cry. Eventually she is called to Jiwoo’s side – a relief from seeing the panicked look in men’s faces as one forgets extra strings for his instrument, and another an entire stack of sheet music for a solo. Jungeun mumbles a brief excuse and exits, apologizing silently to the next girl who would be forced to endure the scatterbrained nature of the incompetent.

  
She enters the room where Jiwoo is waiting, out of breath and disheveled from the chaos the reigned outside. Jiwoo in comparison is impeccable. Her hair is styled upwards in a traditional _gisaeng_ fashion, bunched hair fanning in silky large curls that contrast her traditional single braid beneath the nape of her neck. A rouge is added to her lips, adding to the allure and her face is powdered to hide the usual pallor that had made its stay permanent on her skin. She is absolutely beautiful.

  
“Jungeun,” Jiwoo turns, nervousness clear on her face, “Thank heavens you are here.”

  
“Is something the matter?”

  
Jiwoo turns on her heels, hands smoothing her embroidered dress beneath her knees as she sit. Her fingers play with a jade necklace – a gift from her mother the day they had left their hometown – as her eyes dart nervously in search of any comfort. They eventually ground themselves to an elaborate swirl of golden leaves and birds that stretch from her right sleeve up until the collar.

  
“Could you stand next to me while I perform? There is a stand on the side next to the stage where attendees sit. I will ask for your presence.”

  
Jungeun frowns. “Will I not be a distraction?”

  
“Please.” Jiwoo’s face falls. Despite the makeup the adorns her safe, she suddenly looks like a lost child, nervous and afraid more than excited for an opportunity to shine. “I promise nothing will come from it. Just for me – will you grant me my request?”

  
“I suppose,” she shrugs, any protest melted as she softens immediately. (If it were for Jiwoo, she would be willing to move the sun if requested.) “I do not mind. I would love to see you perform up close, Jiwoo.”

  
“Excellent, thank you.” Jiwoo smiles, a bright little thing that trembles like a mouse. But the appearance of a smile so rare elates Jungeun and she returns that same grin.

  
This time it is unclear who moves first. Their lips meet halfway, the air between them charged with static breaths until neither can breathe. It is the first kiss in which Jungeun feels her chest flutter – a feeling she’s only had with Jinsol – and suddenly, they are ten years younger, still the best of friends with no ill-will towards the world that would eventually bring them grief. They are only children, hiding from the Merchant Kim, creating another innocent secret.

  
A knock on the door separates them forcibly, sweet illusion gone without a trace.

  
The rouge on Jiwoo’s lips smears onto her own, the color a vivid contrast. Jiwoo swipes a thumb softly against Jungeun’s lip to even the color with a giggle.

  
“It looks good.”

  
An ache settles in Jungeun’s chest and she agrees, dumbfounded.

  
“Lady Kim, the King is entering.”

  
Jiwoo stands. Her slender neck peeks from the top of her decorated dress. She is proud and tall, as though the ghost of the girl who withered into the shadows had been banished and replaced with the Jiwoo that could have been. She is alive and well, thriving; Jungeun fails to see any trace of nervousness that plagued her only seconds ago, and instead a confidence that only years of continuous practice could bring.

  
Jungeun shuffles on her knees, smoothing a part of Jiwoo’s dress. She steps to the side as Jiwoo calls out an answer, exiting the door with a look behind to assure Jungeun’s presence.

  
\--

  
The food delicious, and alcohol pours as the festivities rage throughout the day. The circus is second to perform, following a procession from the musicians. Jinsol and Sooyoung take center stage after the acrobatics, their precise dance now enhanced with a technique resembling that of the Chinese. Jinsol is beautiful – Jungeun fails to keep her eyes off her the entire performance. (She knows Jinsol makes extra effort to linger in her line of sight and she falls even harder.)

  
Another round of food is brought as the circus is met with thunderous applause, the King praising the troupe and awarding them with grandeur only royalty could provide.

  
Jungeun takes her seat on the side of the stage, visible to most, but still tucked away as to keep the attention on Jiwoo. Jiwoo enters, standing in the middle with only a single _haegeum_ player seated in the corner.

  
A collective hush falls over the clearing when Jiwoo sings. Her beauty is undeniable, her song graceful. The song is a powerful testimony of an old general – one sung in wish of good fortune and longevity, befitting for a birthday celebration. Her song finishes, and as though the heavenly gods had descended to present themselves to the King, the crowd stays stunned. It is only when the King claps, large hands creating a boom that echoes through the hall, that others join in. The circus is especially loud, Sooyoung having almost shot up into standing position as Jinsol whoops, quickly hiding her voice with a cough when an official guard shoots her a glare.

  
Jungeun is equally enthusiastic. She smiles, bright, pride swelling in her chest as Jiwoo bows with the _haegeum_ player.

  
(Had Jungeun paid more attention, she would have seen the stern eyes of the King turn from the songstress to her servant, softening at her elated form, his gaze settled on the attractive rouge that stains her lips.)

**Author's Note:**

> twt/cc: chuchuuwuo (let's have a chat!)
> 
> originally meant to be a oneshot that got way out of hand.


End file.
